


Know Your Enemy (Murder Husbands Edition)

by Duckyboos



Series: Bitch Better Have My Money [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Bickering, Castiel and Dean Winchester Being Idiots, Crimes & Criminals, Dean Winchester Being a Brat, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Gangsters, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder Husbands, Organized Crime, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Snark, Swearing, Tattooed Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: The sky is blue, grass is green, Castiel Novak is an asshole (and maybe, just maybe, Dean Winchester is too).
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Bitch Better Have My Money [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690696
Comments: 102
Kudos: 282





	Know Your Enemy (Murder Husbands Edition)

**Author's Note:**

> This is 6000 words of Cas and Dean being petty, emotional, non-communicative bitches.  
> Caution: May contain fluff (or as fluffy as these two get, anyways). Enjoy. 
> 
> (Also, it helps if you’ve read the main story arc, as there are a few in-jokes from the main trilogy, but it isn’t absolutely necessary).

Dean’s enjoying a lie-in.

It's after eight a.m. on a standard Wednesday — which as everyone knows is the worst day of the week, whether it's standard, special, or ultimate edition — and he's not even considered getting his ass outta bed yet. 

The opportunities for lie-ins so rarely present themselves that he’s seizing the moment; starfishing face down on their oversized bed, drooling into their expensive, thousand-thread-count-spun-by-virgins pillows, and he absolutely does not give a fuck, ‘cause this is _glorious_. 

His mind is blank, his soul is calm, his dick is half-hard against his thigh, but there’s no urgency or need in him to do something about it, he’s simply enjoying the pleasant sensation, the quiet buzz in his nerves.

Life is good. Damn good. 

He stretches languidly, reveling in the sweet ache of his muscles working, before relaxing again, letting himself go totally boneless, sinking into the mattress. 

It's perfect. 

“Dean!”

_Fuck. Well, that was short-lived, wasn’t it?_

Dean doesn’t respond, keeping his eyes firmly shut, because if he can’t see Cas, then Cas can’t see him. If it’s good enough for toddlers, John Cena, and dogs, it’s good enough for Dean Winchester.

It’s not his proudest moment (not his not-proudest either, ‘cause well, that’s a list all by itself) but needs must when your husband is the literal antithesis to the sandman, like they’ve got an aggressive inter-office betting pool going, and Cas is determined not to let those lousy sleepyheads win this month. 

“Dean!” This time Cas’ voice is louder, right outside the open door of their bedroom and Dean makes a pitiful noise and rolls onto his side away from the noise and reality. Cas must either think Dean’s awake or not care, which is why he’s yelling like a fucking town crier all over the house. 

Dean’ll have to get him one of those hand bells for Christmas. And make him grow a beard. 

_Hear ye, hear ye, the King degrees that there is to be no sleep for anyone, ever! Sleep is for the weak, oyez oyez oyez!_

“Dean!” Cas is inside their bedroom now, stalking across the floorboards with measured steps like the T-1000’s newer, less nuanced model. It’s right about now that Dean wishes with every square inch of his (not inconsiderable) spite that he could be a Candyman-or-Bloody-Mary-esque entity, whereby a three-chant of his name invoked some kind of curse and he hacks the summoner to pieces. 

Sadly, he doesn’t manifest as a supernatural being capable of gutting someone with a hook, just as an overly-tired gangster’s husband capable of bitching someone out from ten paces. 

“Are you awake?” Cas asks, halting at the foot of their bed, right outta fist-swingin’ range. He squints at Dean like he’s trying to figure it out for himself. 

_Oh, so_ now _it occurs to him?_

Dean’s lie-in is ruined so he mutters, “How could I not be with you yelling like Foghorn fucking Leghorn?” 

He can hear the sly amusement in Cas’ voice, “Does that make you Miss Prissy?”

Dean absolutely, resolutely does not smile. “You’re an asshole.”

“I think I heard that rumor.”

Less a rumor, more indisputable fact. Like: the sky is blue, grass is green, Castiel Novak is an asshole.

“What do you want?” Dean rolls over onto his back to face his husband properly.

It’s almost worth the sleep sacrifice, ‘cause _damn_ , Cas looks good today. Not that he doesn’t every day, _obviously_ , but the black waistcoat over the navy shirt, paired with dark, ass-hugging pants are A++.

_Dressed to kill, indeed._

But there’s something behind the blue of his eyes. Something kinda….off? Dean can’t quite put his finger on it. Mostly 'cause even at the best of times, Cas is shiftier than a werewolf on a full moon. Today is apparently not the best of times. Dean's about to ask why his husband’s acting so bent out of shape when Dean's the one whose Wednesday is already on the downturn, but Cas cuts right through him, impatient when he asks, “Have you seen my karambit?”

_Seriously?_

Dean got his peace shattered for this?

He shoves himself up into a sitting position, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. “You’re gonna have to narrow it down for me, Cas. You’ve got like a hundred of the things.” He drops his hands down between the bow of his legs, over the covers.

“I have three,” Cas corrects, somewhat huffily, “because you wouldn’t let me buy that one with the Shou Sugi Ban handle on our honeymoon.”

For fuck’s sake. It’s been months since they got back and Cas is still harping on about the damn thing, completely oblivious that Dean’s bought him one for Christmas. It’s one surprise that Dean’s determined to not let Cas ruin. 

Though he consistently does his best, the overachiever.

“Cas, in the words of Elsa: Let it fucking go, man.”

“I don’t remember her saying that.”

Perhaps if she had, then everyone would've had something to fear other than her powers. Nothing scarier to a kingdom full of wusses than a queen with a potty mouth.

(And Dean should know).

Dean sighs, trying not to look at Cas directly, because if he does, then he’ll fold like a tourist at a Las Vegas poker tournament, and he’s mad at Cas for not letting him sleep in just _once_. He can’t — won’t — give in. “Which one are you looking for? And why? Where are you going dressed like that with a fucking karambit?”

“The Damascus steel one,” Cas tells him, ignoring all the other questions. “The one you bought me when I snapped my old one trying to pry that warehouse door open.”

Ah, that was a good night. After they killed everyone in the building (which they managed to enter thanks to Cas and his knife’s untimely sacrifice) Dean and Cas stopped off at some greasy, fifties-aesthetic diner a couple of blocks away. The two of them sat there at 2 a.m., under the flickering neon di_e_ light, looking like a couple of horror movie escapees, eating some of the best burgers Dean’s ever tasted. 

It’s gotta be up there as one of his happiest memories with Cas. Just the simplicity of it, the two of them. It’s so rare that they get the opportunity to simply _exist_ in the same universe together.

Dean bought him the replacement karambit the next day. 

Dean takes a moment to think of when he last saw it. Probably a couple of weeks ago when Cas used it to slice some unmemorable gangbanger’s carotid before the stupid fucker even knew what happened. 

Afterward, Cas and Dean fucked in the back seat of the Impala. Dean doesn’t recall seeing the knife since then.

“Could be in the Impala,” he suggests, jaw cracking on a yawn. 

Cas clicks his tongue. “I already had Gabriel check in there.”

And oh, woah, _what_? “Gabriel was in my car? Are you insane?”

The second is probably a loaded question, because _of course_ Cas is insane, but you can’t just go around asking crazy people if they’re crazy. It brings out their crazy. 

Again, Cas ignores his questions and it’s starting to piss Dean off. “I would ask Mrs. C if she’s seen it, but it’s her day off.”

“At least _she_ gets one,” Dean grouches, crossing his arms over his chest in a sulk. 

Cas levels a look at him. One that’s usually the precursor to Dean getting laid or torn a new one. He’s hoping for the former, but forever expecting the latter. And of course, it’s this particular comment that Cas picks up on and runs to the goal line with. “I’ve been up since four a.m.”

It’s said in that quiet, sinister way. The one loaded with meaning and menace that should discourage Dean from back-chatting. But he’s never been sensible when it comes to Cas. He sure as shit ain’t gonna start now. 

Not now that they’re manacled together for better or worse.

_Worse it is then._

“Aw,” Dean pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. “I didn’t realize that this was the who-has-it-harder Olympics, because last night? I was busy scrubbing the interior of your ugly ass Beemer because you wanted to leave it until morning to let the blood and brain matter really soak into the upholstery—”

“—that’s only because I had already given it a quick wipedown—”

“—a ‘quick wipedown’?” Dean repeats, incredulous. He throws the covers back and slides out of bed, ‘cause this is an argument that requires pants. Hastily shoving one leg then the other into a pair of sweatpants, he turns to Cas, standing there — for all appearances — utterly unmoved. But Dean knows his tells now. 

Cas is _pissed_.

Well, that makes two of them.

In the face of Cas’ danger-tinged silence, Dean carries on, “By a ‘quick wipedown’, do you mean like when I ask the kids to do the dishes and I’m still finding bits of sauce and pasta clinging for dear life the day after? Like they’ve just beamed cleansing thoughts in the general direction of the plates and called it a fucking day? Because that car of yours was still so filthy last night that I could’ve mailed all the pieces of the poor bastard’s skull to the Shakespeare company for their latest reenactment of Hamlet!”

Cas’ voice is dipping-into-the-eighth-circle-of hell low, nothing but smoke and thinly-veiled violence when he says, “Are you done?”

Is he? Dean’s not sure. He could probably rant some more, but the dead-eyed glare Cas is giving him is making both his spine and dick tingle.

“Yeah,” Dean responds flatly. “Yeah, I’m done.” He turns his back to find a shirt, leaving Cas to stew in whatever flavor of anger he’s going for today. 

_Today seems like a cherry kinda day._

By the time Dean’s done pulling a shirt on over his head, Cas is nowhere to be seen. 

Dean briefly contemplates going back to sleep, but he’s awake and amped up now, so he sighs dramatically; a wordless soliloquy of frustration for the benefit of whichever cruel, capricious god is torturing him for their amusement today, before shuffling outta the bedroom and down the hall to his office. He’s got some emails to send and prescription drug runs to organize.

The phone on his desk is already ringing silently with incoming calls on numerous lines; a pretty little light show, and Dean wants to smush his stupid husband's stupid face. Or put habanero peppers in his coffee. Or change his ringtone to some kind of jerk anthem.

With another to-camera sigh, Dean settles in for a long morning of fielding calls and googling ‘175 hilarious pranks to play on your asshole husband’.

***

Throughout the day, it becomes increasingly apparent that Cas is avoiding him. 

Whenever Dean enters a room that his husband is in, Cas leaves. Not obviously and in a way that might stand Dean a chance of challenging him without making a dick outta himself, but in that surreptitious, _‘oh I’ve just forgotten something at the other end of the planet, let me go fetch it’_ way. 

Several times, Dean checks his breath, his underarms, making sure that he doesn’t smell or something. He’s not dumb enough to think that body odor is the reason Cas is ricocheting away from him at every opportunity, but it’s at least something to scratch off of his list.

Gabriel and Balthazar are hanging around too; the Kevin Costners to Cas’ Whitney Houston and precisely as wooden in their terrible acting — _‘what? No, Cas is fine, he’s not behaving as elusively as a cult leader when the IRS comes a-knocking at all.’_

It’s frustrating as fuck.

Avoidant behavior is Dean’s forte and he’s mildly put out to discover that Cas — someone who has never had any issues confronting anybody — is actually better at it than him. 

The worst thing about it all is that Dean still doesn’t know what Cas wanted the fucking karambit for. 

  
  


***

Nope. Scratch that.

The worst thing about it all is that apparently there’s not a single site on the web that understands what a proper marriage prank is. It’s all cutesy shit like: _‘take a screenshot of his phone's home screen, then set that image as the mobile background. Swap around the apps on his phone, leaving gaps in some places, so that when he tries to use them, he's selecting a blank screen! Tee-hee!’_

Lame.

It should be stuff like: _‘fuck up his day by emptying all his guns so that when he goes to murder someone nothing happens. Oopsie!’_

Now that shit’s hilarious. 

_Hmm._

  
  


***

On his way to grab some lunch, Dean pays a quick visit to their gun cabinet. 

He leaves the area with heavier pockets and a smile on his face. 

  
  


***

In the afternoon, Dean finally corners Cas in his office. 

He hovers awkwardly in the open doorway whilst Cas types away on his laptop, completely ignoring Dean standing there like an errant child called into the headmaster’s study. 

_Huh. Another kink. Who knew?_

Dean clears his throat pointedly. 

Nothing, zilch, nada. Cas doesn’t even pretend to not hear him. There’s no reaction at _all_.

Dean might as well be a fucking ghost. 

Feeling petty as hell and completely irrational, Dean closes the door, turns the key in the lock so that Gabriel and Balthazar can’t resume their incompetent game of telephone or ride to Cas’ rescue. He drops the key into the front pocket of his jeans.

Cas still makes no move to acknowledge Dean’s existence. 

_Fine. You wanna play it that way? We’ll play it that way._

Dean rounds Cas’ desk, looms right behind him in a way that he _knows_ pisses Cas the hell off. _‘It’s rude, Dean,’_ which Dean finds hilarious, ‘cause the rude part is generally considered to be the invasion of personal space. Cas has never had any concept of personal space. 

So yeah, Dean hovers over him, takes perverse pleasure in the way Cas’ elbow knocks into Dean’s lower thigh every time he uses the space bar. 

It’s gotta be annoying as hell, yet the only reaction he receives is the slight tense in Cas’ shoulders, with the fucker continuing to type away.

_Uh-huh._

There’s a couple-inch-thick stack of papers on the edge of Cas’ desk, ‘cause fuck the planet, right? So, in a move that could be seen as either petty pay-attention-to-me behavior or the actions of an environmental activist, Dean shoves the whole lot to the floor.

And fuck is it satisfying. 

Cas’ hands pause over the keyboard. He curls his right into a fist briefly before releasing it and resuming his typing.

Fuck. The one thing Dean can usually rely on is his superior powers of irritation. When those fail, he’s got nothing. It’s probably because lately, he’s been too busy-slash-tired to really hone his skills. Really, he’s been slacking in the annoyance department. The council will revoke his license if he doesn’t up his game. 

“Hmm,” Dean says as he drags his hand across the spines of books Cas keeps in here, despite the library only being on the floor above. “I guess there are some serious benefits to being invisible. I can go search out a ladies locker room — or men’s, I guess — stand there and jerk off into a tube sock. But that’s kinda predictable, ain’t it?” Atop one of the shelves close to the door is a super expensive, super ugly porcelain jug-vase-thing that Naomi and the other crooks at City Hall gave Cas last month as a token of their ‘appreciation’ during a posh dinner. Though they may as well have called the entire night a ‘please-don’t-kill-us-for-underestimating-you’ party. 

_Might’ve been a bit long to put on the banners._

Dean reaches for the jug-vase, turning it over in his hands. Behind him is silence. No more click-clack of the keys. 

_A-ha!_

“Or I could do whatever I want and you’ll never know it was me, right?”

Payback for the Spawn figure, at least. It’ll feel cathartic after all this time. 

“Dean,” Cas growls, throaty and low, and it’s a warning. 

“Oh!” Dean dramatically cups a hand around his right ear, “I think I heard something? Not sure though, ‘cause I’m in-fucking-visible and so is my hearing.” Before he can think better of it, he powerslams the jug-vase into the hardwood floor with more force than necessary to break the damn thing, but it feels _so_ good watching it shatter into a thousand glittering fragments. 

Cas is on his feet behind the desk, fury written in every line of his body, and Dean’s dick can’t help but get the oh-so-wrong message, even though this _really_ isn’t the time. 

Cas’ agility and fluidity have always impressed Dean, and right now is no exception as he seems to cross the entire room in five inches and two steps. In mere milliseconds, he’s got Dean backed up against the closed door, their bodies pressed together so close that Dean can feel Cas’ angry exhale every time Dean breathes in on an anticipatory inhale. 

“Would you look at that,” Dean murmurs thickly, heart kick-thumping in his chest, “Not so invisible after all, huh?”

There’s the slow, shaky push of Cas’ breath in his ear, the curl of Cas’ earthy, masculine scent winding around every last one of Dean’s synapses, the hot, hard line of him molded to Dean with no space for Jesus between them. Maybe a Jesus fuck, because holy hell. 

Dean’s blood is a hot rush under his skin as he fights the instinct to trace the lines of Cas’ throat tattoo with his tongue. This could go either way; violence or sex, and Dean’s here for both, but this is Cas’ show, so he’s gotta be the one to decide. 

A muscle tics in Cas' clenched jaw and he shoves his hand between the crush of their bodies. For one blissful second, Dean thinks he’s gonna be on the receiving end of a wrathful wall-fuck, but instead, Cas reaches into the front pocket of Dean’s jeans, retrieves the key, and leans past Dean to unlock the door. With a growl, Cas fists a hand in Dean’s shirt and yanks him away from the wood, opens the door, then shoves Dean out, sending him stumbling into the hallway

“Stay out.” And with that, the door gets slammed shut in Dean’s fish-slapped face. 

_Well, fuck._

***

Dean retreats to the kitchen to lick his metaphorical wounds.

He makes himself a coffee with Cas’ dumbass machine (no habaneros in it _yet_ ) and sits on one the island stools, racking his brain for anything that could’ve caused this reaction.

He stays there for some time, only coming out of his reverie when Ben puts in an appearance with his bookbag slung over his shoulder. His private-school tie is crooked and sometimes, it makes Dean’s heart ache with how much his kid is like him. 

Especially when Ben makes an immediate beeline for the fridge. “What’s for dinner, dad?”

“Huh?” 

Fridge door wide open, Ben looks at him over his shoulder. “Dinner? Cas said that he was gonna get Leo to make us something special, since you two are going out tonight.”

 _What?_

That’s news to Dean. 

“I’m going out tonight?” Dean asks, his voice at least an octave higher than usual.

_Since when?_

Ben pulls a ‘yikes’ face. “Errr, I don’t think I was supposed to say anything, but Cas talked to me about it a few weeks ago. Anyway, I’ve got some, umm…yeah.” He closes the fridge and beats a hasty retreat before Dean can wring any more details out of him. 

They _never_ go out. Not for anything less than operational concerns or to murderize some fucker. Last night, they did the murderizing, tonight they were supposed to go somewhere for _fun_?

Is that why Cas is pissed? Did something not work out? Did Dean do something? 

_Shit._

He’s up and out of the kitchen in the opposite direction from his son, hoping to hunt down Balthazar and-or Gabriel. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long to find the former. Balthazar is standing sentry outside of Cas’ office, like the man inside is the president and Dean is Lee Harvey Oswald. 

Dean doesn’t beat around the bush, approaching Balthazar with purpose. “Are Cas and I supposed to be going out tonight? Is that why he’s been acting like a little bitch all day?”

Balthazar regards him mildly. “And yet some people would think that you're incapable of diplomacy.”

Eh. Diplomacy is for people tryna grease the wheels in a business transaction. Or for people who give a shit what others think. Dean’s neither of those people right now.

“Spare me,” Dean spits, anxious and irritated. “You’d better tell me or—”

Behind Balthazar, the door opens and hope soars in Dean’s chest, only to fall nose over tail when he sees it’s Gabriel, not Cas.

“He’s not here,” Gabriel tells him firmly, fists full of the bullets that Dean ever-so patiently hid all around the eighteen thousand square feet of their house, like a fun little scavenger hunt. Admittedly, Dean might’ve got a bit bored halfway through and placed more than a fair share of them in Cas’ office whilst he was out on a late lunch. “He left about a half-hour ago.”

_What?_

“Well, where is he?” 

The two of them exchange glances. 

“Tell me!” Dean roars, fists clenched at his sides. “ _Now_ , goddammit!” At first sight, Dean might appear the more amenable, easier-going one out of him and Cas, but Balthazar and Gabriel have seen what Dean can do with nothing but ropes and determination. They stopped underestimating him a long time ago. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Balthazar mutters. To Gabriel he says, “The pair of them are idiots,” before swinging his attention to Dean, “it’s your anniversary.”

_Eh?_

“What?” Dean frowns, spooling through every possible angle Cas could’ve cut this conclusion from. “How can it be? We got married a few months back. Pretty sure that’s not how anniversaries work.”

“The anniversary of your first meeting,” Balthazar explains. “Your first _official_ meeting. Cassie wanted to do something nice to show you that he cares and to apologize for there never being enough time for just the two of you to do non-work-related things.”

Dean (mostly) knew what he was signing on for when they got together, and he’s never once regretted it. Wished for the two of them to spend more time together? Sure, of course, but he never realized that Cas must’ve picked up on his longing.

Not to this extent, at least. 

“That’s why he was all dressed up,” Gabriel adds for the slow people in the room, a.k.a, Dean. “He got Leo to make you a nice breakfast, and he had plans for an afternoon and evening of things for you to do. But then, you didn’t remember the date and you argued and well, you know how much I think of our boss, Dean-o, but he definitely threw his toys outta the pram.”

_Jesus, Cas._

Dean’s knee jerk reaction is to ask what the hell happened to that breakfast, ‘cause goddamn, Leo makes the _best_ french toast, but the more pressing question is, “What was the karambit for then?” 

Balthazar’s expression is blank. More so than usual. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You,” Dean points at Gabriel. “He said that he had you looking for it in my car.”

Gabriel startles like a deer in the headlights of a car he knows he should never ever breathe on, let alone climb all over like a freakin’ jungle gym. Some of the bullets slip between the cage of his fingers and fall to the floor in a series of surprisingly heavy-sounding, solid thunks.“I wouldn’t dare touch your car, Dean-o. What do you think I am, suicidal?”

_Uh-huh._

So, Cas was planning something. Something that hinged on Dean getting his ass outta bed and helping Cas search for a karambit that he wasn’t looking for? Or was just that a ruse? 

_For fuck’s sake, Cas._

It’s not like Cas came with an instruction manual (and Dean wouldn’t have read it anyways), but sometimes, just sometimes, it would be nice for Dean to know what the fuck his husband is up to without having to divine it from fucking tea leaves or paying a visit to his old fortune-telling pal, Madame Tabitha. 

Dean rubs at his temples in an attempt to curb the gradually building headache. “So where is he now?”

“He wouldn’t say,” Gabriel answers with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. 

“I think he knew we would end up telling you,” Balthazar adds. “He knows we can’t say no to that kicked puppy look.”

Dean can feel himself developing an eye twitch. This right here is his villain origin story. 

One day he’ll be explaining all this to a prison shrink. They’ll come to understand why he snapped and went on a tri-state shooting spree screaming about karambits and vases and french toast.

And anniversaries. ‘Cause what the actual fuck, Cas?

In a last-ditch attempt to assuage the guilt and perhaps explain himself to a couple of guys who are just as done with all this shit as Dean is, he mutters, "I thought once you got married, you stopped counting the dating ones? I thought they didn't matter anymore."

It’s societal convention, yeah?

Not like Cas has ever given a shit about those, as Balthazar confirms with his next statement, "Well, it obviously matters to Cassie."

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._

Dean’s hurt his husband’s feelings. And it’s not like he can still pretend that Cas doesn’t have any like he used to be able to, ‘cause Cas’ wedding speech lives rent-free inside Dean’s head. That _‘I promise I will be your equal partner in a loving relationship, for as long as we both shall live’_ still gets Dean a bit emotional sometimes. 

Goddammit. The dumbass was trying to do something nice and Dean fucked it up before he even knew he was fucking it up. 

Communication has never been their strong suit, but this is ridiculous. 

“Fuck,” Dean snarls, frustrated and chastened, “I guess I’d better find that fucking karambit then.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dean starts at the very beginning. Where pretty much everything to do with him and his husband stems from; the bedroom. 

He searches high and low for the curved blade. Underneath their bed, in the nightstand drawers, even outside on the balcony and inside in the adjoining bathroom. 

Nothing. 

“Cas, you asshole,” Dean mutters under his breath as he tosses the pillows back onto the bed. The room looks like it’s been ransacked by a particularly incompetent burglar, but that’s a problem for Cas and his dumbassery later, ‘cause Dean sure as shit ain’t dealing with it.

The next place he looks is his car. Kneeling on the back seat, he sweeps his hand underneath the front bench, patting gingerly every so often, not wanting to add getting stabbed to the list of crappy things that have happened today. 

Nothing.

 _For fuck’s sake._

What else did Cas say this morning? Any other clues? 

Dean reels through the conversation as best he remembers it. 

Right. So, the karambit — the Damascus steel one? It seems unlikely that Cas has hopped on a plane to Syria. Though with the levels of avoidance taking place today, Dean actually wouldn’t be surprised. 

The warehouse they raided? There were enough teeth spilled from gaping, bloodied mouths that night to make the tooth fairy a millionaire. Something to do with teeth? It seems even less likely, somehow, that Cas’ riddle involves a trip to the dentist.

They burned down the warehouse itself, so that’s out.

But that’s it. That’s everything to do with the knife. ‘Cause afterward they went to—

_The diner?_

Oh, shit. _The fucking diner_. 

God, Dean can be so fucking slow sometimes.

  
  


***

The bell above the diner’s door tinkles when Dean enters the tiny, all-night place, with its checkered floor, gingham half-curtains, and fraying vinyl seats. The whole place has the baked-in scent of grease and onion rings. Earth Angel by the Penguins is playing over the speakers. Each chipped table and booth has its own little jukebox, where if you put a quarter in, you get your choice of five songs. Usually, the songs are queued, but Dean can’t see anybody else in the place, other than the broad-smiled waitress and the hairy-armed cook standing behind her in the server's hatch. 

And the single patron.

Cas is sitting with his back to the door, still in his sexy-ass date outfit, with his sleeves rolled up into the crooks of his elbows, broad palms and long fingers curled around a cup of coffee atop the Formica table. There’s something heart-rending and agonizing about the scene he makes that has Dean feeling utterly wretched, completely stealing his humor, low-level annoyance, and the wind from his sails.

Cas is _trying_ even though it goes against everything he is. He’s making a conscious effort to consider Dean and their relationship, to shove away everything else for a day in order to remind Dean that he’s important. It can’t have been easy for him to carve out time to do this. Especially not right now when there’s rumor of an Irish Mob resurgence that has the potential to interfere with Novak Industries’ channels of distribution.

The least Dean can do is meet his husband halfway. 

Dean slides into the booth on the opposite side of the table. “Hey, Cas.”

Cas stares into his coffee like it’s a Magic 8-ball, most likely asking, ‘Is my husband an idiot?’ 

_Signs point to yes._

Dean drums his fingers on the table, glances around. “Have you ordered food yet?”

Elvis Presley’s song, (You’re The) Devil In Disguise begins to play as Earth Angel fades out. 

Dean’s sensing a theme in Cas’ musical choices here. But the man himself still ain’t saying anything, and whilst Dean usually talks enough for the both of them, there’s something about Cas’ deliberate _hurt_ silence that’s making Dean wanna be quiet and listen for a change. 

But first. 

_Time to nut up, Winchester._

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think that this shit was important to you. You’re always joking about our wedding anniversary being every four years and— _oh_ ,” he promptly shuts his mouth, realizing that not only has he missed the point, he impressively ducked the subtext, misread between the lines, and Matrix-ed his way outta the meaning.

_Super fucking slow there, Dean. Nice one._

Epiphany or not, he can’t not be a dick when dealing with treacle-sticky emotions, so as a half-apology, half-explanation, he adds, “I sometimes forget you have people feelings.”

Cas’ lips twitch as he fiddles with the cutlery folded inside a napkin. 

It's impressive how someone with an entire body of tattoos and a kill count to rival Ghengis Khan can act so prissy. But Cas pulls it off with a weird air of masculinity that Dean both admires and appreciates. 

"Okay,” Dean concedes, watching Cas closely for the minutiae of his reaction; the way his sooty eyelashes dip, the upturn of his plush mouth, “so maybe I'm the asshole."

"Maybe?" Cas huffs haughtily — _finally, a response_ — but still not meeting Dean’s eyes.

It’s something, though, and Dean clings to it.

"I'm definitely the asshole."

A few seconds tick by. A trickle of sweat runs down inside the collar of Dean’s shirt. The nice one he hurriedly dug outta their closet so that he didn’t look like a bum in comparison to Cas, even though they’re both overdressed for this dive.

“I did order,” Cas says eventually, eyes tracking up to Dean, looking right into him, seeing him all the way through like he’s always been able to. “I told them not to bring it until you were here though.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“You ordered for me, Cas?”

“I knew you’d work it out sooner or later. And if you didn’t—” he shrugs, glances away like it hurts to think about, and Dean glimpses the vulnerability there. Cas is slowly learning what it means to lay himself bare to another human being. It’s a work in progress for them both; Cas being able to express it, Dean being able to accept it, but the important thing is that they’re trying, for themselves and each other.

“—And if I didn’t, then I’d end up _‘sleeping with the fishes’_ ,” Dean does the Marlon Brando voice, ‘cause Cas _loves_ it when Dean pretends to be a movie gangster. 

He gets the arched eyebrow for that, and the band that's been squeezing Dean's heart all day loosens.

All is forgiven. They’re okay.

“That’s how our kinda people divorce, right? Breezeblock shoes.”

Cas hums. “It’s not something I’ve considered all that much, but now that you mention it, what size are you, again?”

_Dick._

“I’m so pleased to see that the day’s events haven’t robbed you of your sledgehammer wit, Cas.”

Cas’ lips tilt into a smirk. “Do you know how much that vase was worth?”

“Probably more now that someone did the decent thing and made a quaint little jigsaw outta it.” Dean leans across the table between them, jabbing his index finger at the fading pattern. “Look at it this way, Cas. I’m a job creator. Some restorer somewhere is gonna cream their pants when they see that.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” Cas answers his own question like Dean never even spoke, and holy fucking shit. Two hundred thousand dollars? For something that fuck-ugly? “That antique survived the Ming Dynasty, the Renaissance, the Spanish flu, two world wars—”

“—But it didn’t survive Dean Winchester?”

“Mm,” Cas’ half-smile turns whole. “Some days I’m not entirely convinced I will either.”

The waitress appears at their elbows. “Our double-stacked cheeseburger for you,” she slides an overloaded plate of cheesy, meaty goodness onto the table in front of Cas. “And for you, a halloumi burger.” She places a plateful of purple and green salad and a pretty sorry-looking bun in front of Dean. 

Cas smiles at her, charm personified, and Dean wants to throttle him. Just reach across the table and wrap his hands around his husband’s tattooed neck, watch him turn a pretty shade of puce. 

The waitress leaves with a faint blush staining her cheeks.

Dean watches on silently as Cas picks up his burger without a care in the world. 

“You’re serious, huh?” Dean asks, dropping his eyes to the abomination in front of him. “What the fuck have I done to deserve _this_?”

‘Cause, honestly, it’s gotta be pretty heinous. Like not putting the toothpaste lid back on. 

Right before he takes a bite of his burger, Cas replies, “Where would you like me to start? With the bullets, the vase, the paperwork, or you telling one of our associates to ‘suck it’?”

 _Ugh._ What a fucking tattletale. It’s not like Zachariah didn’t earn himself a slapdown. Long before now. The fact that Dean’s been able to contain himself this long speaks to his self-restraint, and now Cas is bitching him out for it? 

_Yeahuh. ‘Cause that’s all it is._

Okay. So maybe Dean could've been a little less petulant today. _Maybe_. But frankly, none of that shit on Cas’ list is Dean’s fault. If Cas wasn’t a sleep-depriving, taciturn ass, then the bullets, the vase, the paperwork, etc., wouldn’t have happened, and if Zachariah wasn’t such a pompous little prick then he wouldn’t get put in his place.

Still, it’s hard to feel vindicated when Dean’s the one sitting in front of something the Cypriots exported just to get it the fuck outta their country. Before that, they were probably flinging it across the border at their enemies. 

Dean peels the flat bun away from the squeaky, bland lump inside. _Yeuch._

He glances up at his husband, with his stupidly blue eyes and date-night waistcoat and all this effort he went to just for Dean (petty burger warfare notwithstanding). Dean picks the aforementioned atrocity up just as the opening notes of the completely-anachronistic-and-therefore-specifically-requested-in-advance _Glory of Love_ kick in. It’s stupid and cheesy and romantic and soft and thoughtful.

Dean sighs wistfully. Maybe he can suck it up. Just this once. 

After all, there’s a thermal carafe of habanero-pepper-infused coffee waiting for Cas at home, and revenge is a dish best served cold. Or 250,000-on-the-Scoville-scale hot. 


End file.
